


1793

by pinkgrapefruit



Series: workplace romance [1]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: F/F, set in the lourvre, tfw you decide to write a time travelin' one shot series, the first of many
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 22:11:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20365921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkgrapefruit/pseuds/pinkgrapefruit
Summary: trixie is trying to infiltrate the opening of the louvre and katya is trying to dismantle the patriarchy.[or the beginning of time.]





	1793

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys! ive been sitting on this for a while and trying to get people to tell me i'm insane but alas it might be a few more days until i can get another chapter out so have this beauty. it's the beginning of a series! thanks to meggie, my angel baby mac and of course my dear frey and do enjoy!

Trixie stands in front of the Louvre with a quill and a parchment secured to a thin slate. She adjusts her cap, tucks the stray hairs back under its hard band and dabs gently at the graphene powder used to give her some rudimentary stubble. She coughs a few times to lower the octave of her voice and reaches deep into the pockets that can fit her fist (men’s trousers) before pulling out a pass and walking straight for the doors of the Lourve with intent and confidence. She is let through - an honour when she knows that, under a different name, she would be denied entry.

She’s on the lookout for a new artist, they go by the name of Zamolodchikova and their art is among some of the first pieces to be displayed in the new museum France is so very proud of. 

She dodges and ducks through artists posing in front of their works, making sure not to knock the painters working so hard to immortalise the images in front of them. There is a corridor however, that lays dormant, empty, void of the bustle of press at a new gallery publicised around the world. It contains art splatted in reds and pinks, depicting the female form in strokes that, unlike so many others of the 573, are messy and full of character. They are magnetic - just apparently only to Trixie. 

Once she is out of sight and earshot of everyone, hidden behind the heavy wooden doors, stood by a painting of hair on a bed (or something like that), she pulls the cap off her head and lets her long golden hair shake out and flow down her back. She sets all of her belongings down on the floor and gently leans against the ornate walls, tracing the golden embellishments like spiderwebs up to the ceiling with its chandeliers. 

Trixie wonders how she got so lucky to be here. 

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” comes a heavily accented voice from a service corridor Trixie had missed. She jumps and pulls the hat back on messily as she turns to face the sound. 

“Uhh, sor - Bonjour, hi, hello.” She struggles, trying to both stay calm and maintain her facade of a French male journalist rather than an American woman from New York. 

A blonde head pokes out from around the door and looks around. They adjust their black hat before stepping out into the hallway, a long coat obscuring their body and the brim of the hat down over their eyes.

“Who are you?” Asks Trixie in her faux deep voice, the sounds reverberating around the room. 

The person appears to give her a once over before they lift their head and Trixie glimpses a pair of piercing pale blue eyes staring back at her. They glisten in the gallery lights and she feels like they see everything. Slowly, the person removes their hat and dirty blonde curls tumble off their head and onto their shoulders. They- she brushes them out of her face and closes the distance.

“Katya,” she says with a hand out, the accent is now gone and she sounds ambiguous. 

“Trixie,” states Trixie, shaking the woman’s cold hand with a small smile. She takes off her own hat but chooses to pull a ribbon out of her pocket and ties the hair up with that.

The ribbon is pink.

“Beautiful name,” says Katya, remarkably calmly for a woman who was pretending to be a man who’s just met another woman pretending to be a man. “It’s a shame about the patriarchy, we could have been friends.”

“I’d be inclined to agree,” replies Trixie, simply as they stand there. Neither is particularly on edge - although some would argue they should be. “Katya,” she tests out the way it feels on her younger, how it flicks off the back of her teeth, harsh. She rather likes it, “Katya, Katya, Katya.”

“Yekaterina,” is the response, as if the longer name is a sort of justification. She leans against the wall like the whole conversation is nothing - she spins a coin on her finger nonchalantly and a Trixie finds herself fascinated with the way her hand curls to catch it.

“Russia?” She guesses after a little thought, leaning back too until the small of her back hits the ceramic bar on the wall.

“Yes but I have lived everywhere. Now tell me, Trixie” - Trixie shivers at the way she pronounces the T so hard but the rest so soft - “What brings you to a gallery in Paris?” 

She sighs because she should not be throwing this information around and yet those eyes make her want to spill everything. “I write - my office wanted a story on the opening of the Louvre and the artist Zamolodchikova and I wanted to leave.” Trixie pauses before adding - “I wanted to feel free.”

“Freedom is overrated.” Says Katya, quieter now. “See these paintings, they paint a side of freedom that is a little uglier.” As Trixie looks around now she still sees the female forms but now they look marred. In one, she sits in only a pink bra covered in red scratches. In another, there’s a silver undertone that looks almost like a chain, the woman’s hands are bound behind her and her blonde hair tickles the small of her back.

“I’m not sure I understand.” She says in response because she doesn’t - not really. 

“Then maybe you’re not supposed to.” Katya flicks up the collar on her coat and turns back around ready to leave again before Trixie reaches out her arm to grab her wrist.

“Katya,” she says, a little louder than needed. “Who are the women?” 

Katya reaches into the left pocket of her overcoat and pulls out a red powder. She taps it onto her lips and rubs them together so it blurs all over the lines, smudging the gentle work. She finishes with a pop, deposits it back into her pocket and smiles.

“In another life, they’re you.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK.


End file.
